CHAPTER 4 Ascensión

Frederick paced the room, his mind swirling with the consequences of his actions. He had hastily ended his marriage with Andrea, prompting her to seek a divorce, all in pursuit of rekindling his relationship with Camilla, who had returned to his life after years abroad. As he pondered his next steps, Frederick knew he needed to approach the situation with care and foresight. Turning to his trusted butler, James, who stood attentively by the door, Frederick spoke with a mixture of concern and determination. 'James,' Frederick began, his voice reflecting the weight of his words, 'I find myself in a difficult position. Andrea has requested a divorce, and I fear the scandal it may bring.' James, ever the stalwart companion, met Frederick's gaze with understanding. 'Indeed, your grace,' he replied, his tone respectful yet resolute. 'I shall make the necessary arrangements for your departure to the esquire office.' As James began to leave the room, Frederick stopped him. 'Wait, James,' he said, a hint of hesitation in his voice. 'There is more we need to discuss.' James turned back, his expression attentive. 'Of course, your grace. What else weighs on your mind?' Frederick paused, choosing his words carefully. 'I cannot help but feel a sense of regret,' he admitted. 'Regret for the way I handled things with Andrea, and regret for the pain I have caused her.' James nodded, his expression sympathetic. 'It is understandable, your grace. Divorce is never easy, especially when emotions are involved.' Frederick sighed, running a hand through his hair. 'I know I cannot change the past, but I cannot help but wonder if there was a better way to handle things.' James placed a reassuring hand on Frederick's shoulder. 'You acted with the information you had at the time, your grace. It is natural to question your decisions, but you must also trust that you made the best choice you could in the moment.' Frederick nodded, grateful for James's wisdom. 'Thank you, James. Your words bring me some comfort.' he replied thoughtfully 'If that that would be all your grace, I'll go ensure that your carriage is prepared' He said, turning to leave. 'Wait James, one more thing. See, I've been too preoccupied with my current situation, that I have failed to keep up with the goings-on in politics'––he winked. James smiled, happy to provide a distraction. 'Well, sir, there is much to discuss. The recent election has caused quite a stir, with the new Prime Minister promising sweeping changes. Some say it could be the start of a new era in politics.' Frederick raised an eyebrow, intrigued. 'Is that so? And what of the opposition? Are they mounting any significant challenges?' James nodded, launching into a detailed account of the political landscape. As they spoke, Frederick felt a sense of relief, if only temporary, as he immersed himself in the world outside his own troubles. *** 'I was expecting you, Your Grace,' Mr. Hawthorne of Hawthorne & Associates, began as the Duke entered, 'I received your telegram, which was why I dispersed my associates and secretary. Please, take a chair.' He gestured towards a worn leather chair, its cushions showing signs of age. Mr. Hawthorne was a stout man, with a noticeable paunch that strained against the fabric of his shirt. His head was bald, save for a neat mustache that sat above his lip, without a beard in sight. Despite his lack of height, he exuded an air of authority, his posture erect and confident. His attire was simple yet dignified, with a shirt and trousers that were slightly too large, held up by a pair of suspenders. His shirt was a crisp white, though slightly yellowed with age, and his trousers were a muted grey, showing signs of wear at the knees. Mr. Hawthorne had been in the legal profession for over a decade, specializing in matters concerning the royal palace. His expertise was sought after for cases of delicate nature, where his shrewdness and attention to detail were unmatched. As he waited for the Duke to take his seat, Mr. Hawthorne's eyes twinkled with intelligence, his mind already at work, planning his strategy for the case ahead. The Duke nodded, taking a seat and straightening his jacket. 'Thank you, Mr. Hawthorne. I trust your discretion in this matter.' 'Of course, Your Grace,' Mr. Hawthorne replied, his voice low and respectful. 'I understand the delicacy of the situation. Now, let us discuss the matter at hand.' The Duke took a deep breath, steeling himself for the conversation ahead. 'As you are aware, my marriage to the Duchess has reached an impasse. We have decided that it is best for both of us to seek a divorce.' Mr. Hawthorne nodded, his expression neutral. 'I see. And how would you like to proceed?' 'I want to ensure that this divorce is handled with the utmost discretion,' the Duke said firmly. 'I do not want it to be a scandal, especially given my position in society.' 'Understood, Your Grace,' Mr. Hawthorne replied. 'I will do everything in my power to ensure that this matter is handled with the utmost confidentiality.' The Duke nodded, a sense of relief washing over him. 'Thank you, Mr. Hawthorne. It is of the utmost importance that what is discussed here be left in confidence and must not be divulged.' 'Yes your grace. As I was saying,' Mr. Hawthorne continued, 'You've reiterated that we must ensure that every aspect of this divorce is handled with the utmost care. Is there a specific approach you have in mind?' The Duke leaned forward, his expression serious. 'I want this divorce to be as amicable as possible. The Duchess and I have agreed on the terms, and I believe we can part ways without any unnecessary drama.' Mr. Hawthorne nodded, jotting down notes as the Duke spoke. 'That is wise, Your Grace. A swift and amicable resolution will be beneficial for both parties. Have you discussed these terms with the Duchess already?' The Duke nodded. 'Yes, we have had preliminary discussions. She understands the need for discretion as well.' 'Excellent,' Mr. Hawthorne said, a sense of reassurance in his voice. 'I will draft the necessary documents and ensure that everything is in order. Rest assured, Your Grace, I will handle this matter with the utmost care and confidentiality.' The Duke rose from his chair, extending his hand to Mr. Hawthorne. 'Thank you, Mr. Hawthorne. Your assistance in this matter is greatly appreciated. I trust that this will all be resolved swiftly and discreetly.' Mr. Hawthorne shook the Duke's hand, a sense of determination in his eyes. 'You have my word, Your Grace. I will see to it personally.' As the Duke left, Mr. Hawthorne returned to his desk, his mind already at work on the task ahead. He knew that the Duke's divorce would be a challenging case, but he was confident that with his expertise and discretion, he could ensure that it was resolved in a manner befitting the royal family. *** For this occasion, she had donned the "Widow's Weeds" a style that was characterized by a long, black dress with a high collar and long sleeves, often made of heavy crepe fabric. The dress was typically worn with a black veil that covered the face and a black bonnet or hat. It was a mourning attire that was worn by women who had recently lost a spouse and was meant to symbolize their grief and respect for the deceased. But in this case, it served as a mask, reducing the risk of being recognized. Among her people, she stood in the shadows, disguised in the widow's weeds. It was at Mother's request that she stepped forward into the light, lifting the veil above her bonnet. As the flickering glow from the lone sconce illuminated her face, she revealed herself to the almost three hundred people gathered in the underground cavernous space. The light cast a soft, ethereal glow on her features, highlighting the determination in her eyes and the set of her jaw. Despite the heaviness of the fabric and the somberness of her attire, there was a sense of purpose in her movements, a quiet resolve that resonated with those around her. She knew the risks of being recognized, but she trusted in Mother's guidance. As she surveyed the room, her eyes meeting those of her people, she felt a sense of unity and purpose. The widow's weeds may have provided her with a disguise, but they also served as a symbol of her commitment to her cause. 'Children of the Light, I present to you my protege, Camilla!' She said beaming from ear to ear as she pulled her forward. Continuing, she added: 'Today marks the day we celebrate, for today is the beginning of the end of humankind!' a huge round of applause ensued and went on for a few seconds before abating. 'For years we've tried to infiltrate the government, but without much success. But today, it is with great pleasure I inform you that; what we attempted but failed to achieve, my child has attained it!' As she stepped forward into the light, a resounding round of applause reverberated through the cavernous space. It was the sound of almost three hundred people coming together in a gesture of respect and acknowledgement. The applause was thunderous, filling the air with a sense of unity and solidarity. For a moment, she stood there, bathed in the warm glow of the flickering light, soaking in the applause. It was a moment of validation, a recognition of her courage and commitment to their cause. As the applause gradually died down, she took a deep breath, steeling herself for what was to come. She knew that the real work was only just beginning, but with the unwavering support of Mother and her people, she was ready to take the next step forward. 'My child will be getting married to the Duke.. ' she paused, building up the anticipation. 'it helps give us a position of authority even in the highest echelon of power. No more will our kind be despised.' she said, gritting her teeth loudly. 'A celebration cannot go on successfully, without wine' she motioned to a dark recess, deep in the cave, where two of her guards went in and brought out six captives, all of whom were gagged and tied up, wriggling and tugging at their firm restraints. 'Camilla', she said turning to face her, 'Do us the onus'–– the beginning of a small smile playing around the edges of her lips. With a small nod, Camilla Stepped forward towards the captives, ejecting claw- like nails which were as sharp as scythes. Effortlessly, she picked up one of the captives, whom appeared to be a young girl in her late twenties, and with one sweeping motion, she swiped at the girl's neck, revealing a thin trail of blood, which profusely bled as it expanded. And like every thing fueled by desire, the insatiable thirst gripped her. A look of primal hunger twisted her features. Her eyes, once filled with a glimmer of humanity, now burned with a feral intensity. The thirst consumed her, driving her to the brink of madness as she struggled to contain the overwhelming urge to feed. At the same time, thick, web-like veins began to surface on her face, tracing intricate patterns beneath her skin. They pulsed with an otherworldly energy, a visual manifestation of the vampire's inner turmoil. The veins seemed to throb with each beat of her heart, a stark reminder of the darkness that now coursed through her veins. Despite her best efforts to resist, the thirst was relentless, driving her to the edge of control. Her fangs extended, gleaming in the dim light, a chilling sight that sent a shiver down the spine of anyone who beheld it. She was no longer the woman she once was, but a creature consumed by a hunger that could never be satisfied. Her voice, when she uttered the word "feed," was a chilling mix of desperation and command. It carried a raw, primal quality, like a predator on the hunt. There was a hunger in her tone, a reminder of the insatiable thirst that gripped her. Despite the underlying urgency, there was also a sense of authority in her voice, a command that brooked no argument. It was as if she had tapped into a primal instinct, one that demanded obedience above all else. The moment she commanded them to feed, they sprang into action with a startling swiftness. Like shadows taking flight, they moved with an eerie grace, their movements almost synchronized in their haste to obey her command. With a single-minded determination, they descended upon their prey, their movements quick and efficient. There was no hesitation, no remorse, only the instinctual drive to satisfy their unquenchable thirst. As they fed, their movements became more frenzied, more desperate. The taste of blood was like a drug, intoxicating and addictive. They drank deeply, their fangs sinking into warm flesh, the sound of their feeding echoing through the chamber. It was a scene of primal savagery, a stark reminder of the darkness that lurked within them. And yet, for a fleeting moment, they felt a sense of satisfaction, a brief respite from the insatiable hunger that haunted their every waking moment. For Camilla, this was whom she was ––an apex predator. No, one could stop her. For a moment, she paused, her eyes scanning the sea of heads for her mother. And when their eyes locked, she should see the evident beam of pride as her mother stood silently watching her feed. In that instant, there was a feeling of mutual understanding between mother and daughter, fueled by love and parenthood. But for Lilith, she knew that her daughter, was the breakthrough her kind needed.